


L is for The Way You Look Away

by karmascars



Series: Bath Time [5]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Angst, Blow Jobs, Castiel has this shit all figured out, Drinking, Drinking & Talking, Fluff, Frottage, Jealousy, M/M, Misunderstandings, Porn With Plot, Rimming, Sastiel - Freeform, Talking About Relationships, he's just waiting for the brothers to catch up, pre-Wincestiel, the Wincest part isn't quite there yet, you know how Dean is
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-01
Updated: 2014-08-01
Packaged: 2018-02-11 08:46:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,292
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2061615
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/karmascars/pseuds/karmascars
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fifth part of the Bath Time series. Sam decides he's had enough of Dean sneaking around with Cas. They're all grown men here, damnit; Castiel is millennia old! It shouldn't be an issue. </p><p>What Sam didn't anticipate was what Castiel does, and how Dean reacts.</p>
            </blockquote>





	L is for The Way You Look Away

Sam's not a moron, okay?

He gets it. He really does. There's no reason for Dean to even try and resist this thing happening between him and Castiel -- hell, Sam is more surprised it didn't happen sooner. With the way Dean lives (the way they both live, of course, but Sam's not half the hedonist) there's no reason not to just seize on the next good thing. Especially not when that good thing is an angel of the Lord, who has no intention of dying before you or even, it seems, leaving (and so, in theory, could always be the next good thing) and who makes sounds like _that_ when he's --

Yeah. So, about that.

There's really no reason for Dean to be acting out this ridiculous charade. Sam was there, in the room, that day with the donuts. Sure, Dean doesn't know how _long_ Sam was in the room (and let's keep that under wraps, shall we?) but Dean has eyes, and Dean saw Sam in the room before disappearing into the bathroom and making -- and Cas --

Noises.

So. Sam is not an idiot, and he's about done with Dean treating him like one.

Like right now, for instance. They're in Arizona, halfway through what's looking like your typical salt-and-burn, and Dean has been at the drink machines for the past fifteen minutes. Seeing as how their room is only two away from said machines, Sam knows exactly what's going on. It's broad daylight, but he knows that wouldn't stop Dean from shoving Castiel up against the faded Pepsi logo with a thigh between the angel's legs, grinding on him like a teenager. Sam knows, because it's happened before. There's no other explanation for Dean standing alone and slightly debauched in front of a row of sodas and snacks when a frustrated and thirsty Sam goes to find him. And Sam knows that hint of ozone in the air like the scent of leather upholstery on their own two skins.

He doesn't want to think about what hurts more: the hiding, or. Well. Sam ought to be used to exclusion, right? It was years before he was allowed on hunts. He was only quietly popular at Stanford. And Dean, he's always kept secrets.

Not to mention that Dean is in no way obligated to share, especially with his kid brother. Sam keeps secrets, too. Humans as a whole tend to keep things to themselves. It shouldn't be an issue.

Sam stares down at his laptop screen. Seventeen minutes. He's only just now aware of the cheap plastic chair he's sitting in, the way it cuts into his thighs through his jeans. It's chilly in the room, he notices, but he's not cold. There's something thrumming beneath his skin.

Something he's intelligent enough to recognize is a pretty stupid urge, but that still doesn't stop him from considering.

He knows what would happen, if he walked outside and two doors down. He'd hear the familiar _whump-whuff_ of wings beating, and Dean would be fumbling quarters with one hand, tugging his collar back into place with the other. Hair mussed, lips bitten and plump. Deny, deny, deny.

For a moment, though, Sam entertains the thoroughly masochistic train of thought that begins with _but what if Castiel didn't fly away?_ There are two roads that diverge in that foolish, nonexistent wood: either Cas would alert Dean to Sam's presence, which would trigger Dean's bluster and blush and accomplish nothing, or. Or.

Maybe Castiel would stay quiet, keep encouraging Dean's advances, and let Sam watch.

The room is warmer, now. Sam realizes he's biting his lip. Fuck, he doesn't even know which of them he'd be watching, and that's part of the rising heat. Castiel is, well, Castiel; obviously something more than just a brunet, blue-eyed man in an ill-fitting coat. He's a blazing comet tucked neatly into the form of a man. It's there in his bearing, the way he conveys himself, the way he speaks -- that early-morning coffee grinds _sin_ of a voice that never fails to traverse up Sam's spine. Cas is otherworldly, he's goddamn beautiful, and what Sam wouldn't give to tell him that and have it be any kind of well-received.

But of course, there's Dean.

Dean, Sam's big brother, who has been such a staple part of Sam's life that it was never a question who Sam looked up to, wanted most to be like. Not their Dad, not all that damage and liquored-up, barely-directed violence. Dean, with his charming sleaze and bad jokes, eyes like a forest in the afternoon. Even his flaws are attractive. Who else would a kid want to be but that player, the killer with a lopsided grin? The antihero, scruffy Han Solo to Sam's gangly, pre-Force Luke.

Seeing Dean and Cas together that day was like staring straight into a solar eclipse, searing into Sam's brain. Blinding him. It gives him a headache, even now, but he still can't look away.

He can admit it to himself: what he wouldn't give to see more.

What does that make this, then? Some sick desire to play voyeur? Sam's brow crinkles. He can feel the grooves furrowing deeper with every conundrum that passes. Now, somehow, he has to figure out what's more important to him: everything being out in the open, or not being taken for a gigantic perv.

Because the moment Dean suspects Sam's getting any pleasure from this, it's back to the sneaking around. No second chances. Dean is frighteningly open with his female conquests (let's not forget the twins, the whipped cream and the whole 'inviting Sam to watch' debacle. Sam's sure that more than alcohol was involved) but with Castiel, Sam has no doubt that Dean likes the view better from inside the closet. It must be comfy in there.

The more he thinks about it, the more Sam just _feels_ like a gigantic perv. Because really, what he wants more than anything is for Dean to feel like he can trust him. After all, that's been the theme ever since the angels came into this picture. but he can't deny how knowing, seeing, would make him feel.

"Yep," Sam says aloud, to the still of the room. "Fuuucked up." He drawls the swear because it's odd hearing his own voice, but he wholeheartedly agrees with himself. He punctuates with a sigh.

\- - - - -

Thirty-five minutes. Okay, guys. It's not even about Sam's requested Mountain Dew anymore. He's about to march out there, take them by surprise (or try) and state in no uncertain terms that _he really just does not care. Dean._

Making sure he's got his key, just in case, Sam slips out and stalks down the worn painted walkway toward the vending machines. He's rehearsing it all in his head: _Dean, you're my brother and I love you, but you're being a child. Cas, I could care less if you want to climb him like a tree. Please, guys, stop with the middle school secrecy. We're all adults. We --_

Sam draws up short, ducks against the wall, hopefully still unseen. Castiel is there, all right, but unless Sam is misreading the set of Dean's shoulders, the angel is already having this talk for him.

He can hear Dean mumble something; he can see the jut of his brother's jaw, the line of a chiseled cheekbone, but no matter how he strains the words are unintelligible. Castiel is facing toward him, though, and so he hears very clearly when Castiel says, "You still haven't told him?"

Dean shifts his weight, glancing away from the angel's gaze. Sam can hear him when he says, "I just don't know how he'll react."

"To your relationship with _me_?" Castiel asks, stressing the pronoun.

"To me liking _guys_ ," Dean shoots back with exactly the same emphasis. Sam rolls his eyes. He's known Dean haunted both sides of the fence for years now, and has Dean seriously forgotten the powdered sugar incident?

Because Sam seriously hasn't.

A footfall, the rustle of cloth and a wet smack of lips; Castiel steps into Dean's arms, and kisses him. "I would not worry so much about that, but rather what he may think about you hiding something from him." _Again_ rings loudly, unspoken.

 _Well, yeah_ , Sam shrugs internally. He turns away, gazing across the parking lot, as Dean kisses his angel rather than have to reply. _I'm not one to talk, I know, but I'd be nice if for once we could all be open and honest about something._

In patented Winchester style, he pointedly does not think about the possibility for any other motive.

"Perhaps you should ask him what he thinks," Castiel says. Sam moves a little closer.

"Maybe later," Dean says, and Sam's heart jolts, because he knows what Cas will say next.

And the angel does not disappoint. "Perhaps now? He is standing just around the corner."

"What?" Dean snaps.

Sam puts on his best sheepish face, and steps forward. "Just, uh, checking on those sodas," he says, wincing slightly at the lame. He's gratified to see that Castiel hasn't just flown off. Between the two of them, they're blocking Dean's escape routes.

Dean's nostrils are flaring slightly, though, so Sam knows they have to play this very, very carefully.

"You perving on us, Sammy?" Dean sneers.

Oh, that is _it_.

"Can you act like an adult for five fucking seconds? Jesus, Dean," Sam explodes, throwing his hands out. "I do not _care_ what you two do. I stopped caring weeks ago, like the instant I found out. I'm happy for you. Can we please just be where it's air-conditioned? it's about a hundred and six out here. I'll turn my fucking back, if that's what you want, I just," and he runs his hands through his hair, aggravated, only to stop short and clear his throat at the frankly dumbfounded look on Dean's face.

Castiel places a gentle hand on Dean's bicep. "I did tell you," he chastises softly.

Dean's eyes narrow at Sam. "You better not be angling for a threesome."

"Whatever," Sam mutters. He spins on his heel. "You can stay out here and sweat for all I care."

He absolutely does not stomp his way back to the room.

\- - - - -

Not even five minutes later, the door creaks open. It's Dean -- with Castiel in tow. They're holding hands, Dean's fingers tangled resolutely with the angel's, and Dean's face says he's prepared to throw down if Sam says a single word.

Sam goes back to his research.

He waits until Dean is settled on his bed, halfway through removing a boot, before he casually says, "So they were out of Mountain Dew?"

"Get your own damn sugar water, Sammy," Dean shoots back, amicably enough. Sam snorts. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Dean tugging Cas down to lounge beside him.

 _Whump-whuff_. To what looks like Dean's immense shock, Castiel disappears. "Hey, what the --"

And then Cas is back, with a six-pack of classic Mountain Dew in glass bottles that did not come from the vending machine. He places it lightly on the table, and Sam gapes up into smiling blue eyes.

"Thanks, Cas," he says, a little hoarsely.

"Did you at least get --" Dean starts to say, then breaks off in a happy little cry when Castiel's other hand produces beer. "Knew there was a reason I kept you around," he says magnanimously, and tugs. Whatever Castiel might have replied is lost against Dean's lips.

Sam studiously opens a soda against the cheap table edge, and ignores the tightness in his gut. This is what he wanted, after all.

\- - - - -

Two weeks, three and a half jobs later, and Sam is starting to lose his mind. He knew, he _knew_ this would happen but no, he couldn't live with secrets, could he? Had to have it all out in the open. Had to be cool with big brother's life choices.

He is, really. Cool with it. He just didn't expect to see so much in so short a time.

It's never even anything pornographic. Sam doesn't know where the two of them fuck (and he knows they have to be fucking) but it sure as hell isn't the motel room he's in. He is actually grateful for that; he might have snapped on day two if he'd come back from the library to find them going through the Kama Sutra, or whatever.

No, it's the little things, building up over time. Kisses during TV movies, blushing (Dean blushes like a virgin whenever he looks at Castiel. It makes his freckles stand out) and whispering. Sometimes, Sam will glance over, and the two will be studying their entwined hands, one of them tracing the interlocked digits with a free finger. Sam never expected his brother would take to romanticism so thoroughly. Now, it's happening all the time. It's just about driving him mad.

The worst part is, he knows he can't complain. He asked for this. And it makes Dean happy, happier than freshly-baked pie. How could Sam even think about tearing him down? Dean _deserves_ this. He deserves to have happiness for once in his life. Sam just has to suck it up, deal, and spend all the time he's ignoring Dean giggling ( _giggling!_ ) with Cas trying not to psychoanalyze the way he feels about it.

Meanwhile, though, he's been drinking more, and saying less. He can't even tell if Dean's noticed.

Dean knows him better than anyone. Sam expects any concern (albeit gruff and condescending) would come from him. There's nothing, though, and fuck if that doesn't just drive him to drink more.

He knows he's being childish. Alcohol helps him ignore that.

\- - - - -

Sam stares blearily at the cartoony pirate smirking from his bottle. A bottle that's nearly empty, at not even nine o'clock pm.

He wonders if Captain Morgan ever felt this way: jealous and lonely, and guilty for the first two. Probably not. Look at that pile of treasure. The man never wanted for anything, least of all companionship.

Sam hasn't been with anyone (who's not his right or left hand) in months.

Two hours ago, Dean left. Told him not to wait up. That used to mean a girl, or maybe two, and Dean stumbling back in at some small hour reeking of liquor and sex. Now, Sam knows it means meeting Castiel, and he'd be surprised if the two even got a room at a different motel. They're probably just on the other side of the building.

He's picturing it without giving himself permission. The booze was supposed to stop that, but of course it's made it worse. He sees, instead of the room out of focus before him, callused hands on pale skin. Khaki and leather and denim haphazardly strewn across the floor. Lips caught on skin, around tongues that absolutely need to taste every inch of both their mouths. Green and blue eyes closed, half-lidded, languorous in lust. Cocks encased together in one hand or two, drooling precome to ease the --

No! Bad Sam! He takes another shot.

A rustle of wings. "Whoa!" Sam blurts, startling backward out of his reverie, and his chair. Castiel is standing mere feet away, his expression caught somewhere between disapproving and concerned.

The shot glass rolls off the table, and thunks onto the cheap carpet.

Sam looks up at the angel helplessly from his new spot on the floor. Somehow, he just knows that Cas had seen his every dirty, petty thought. He can't look away from that blue-eyed gaze, though. He's utterly ensnared.

Castiel crouches, frowning, two fingers outstretched.

"No!" Sam crab-scuttles backward, shaking his head so hard that his hair stings his face as it slaps back and forth. "Nuh-uh, no mojo."

"But you are... highly intoxicated," Castiel says, "and I wish to speak with you."

"Don'," Sam hiccups, "wanna get another bottle. Don' wanna be sober. Guess we'll. We gotta talk another time." He pulls his knees up to his chest, and tilts his head to the side.

A giggle erupts. "You look funny sideways."

"Sam, I can feel your pain," Castiel says. He's very matter-of-fact.

Sam's brow furrows. "Sucks t' be you," he says, seriously. "There's not much rum left." He'd share with Castiel if there was. The angel shouldn't have to feel as shitty as Sam does, all because of Sam. It should be fixable.

It _is_ fixable, sort of. That's why Sam is drunk.

"Why do you ask your brother to share his feelings if you will not share yours?"

"Dean'd make a funny there, you know he would," Sam mutters. Dean's always quick with the _show me yours_ and _that's what she said_.

"Sam," Castiel says, barest hint of reproach.

Pursing his lips, Sam picks at a crusted spot on the carpet he hopes is glue. "I d'no," he finally adds, hating himself a little bit more. "Jus' tired a'bein' left out."

Castiel makes the most adorable confused face. Sam has to restrain himself from doing something stupid, like cooing or reaching out to pet him like a kitten. "I do not understand," the angel says. "You wish to be involved with us?"

Sam flushes scarlet, hunching his shoulders and drawing in on himself like being smaller will lessen the shame. "No," he lies. "Jus'... It felt kinda stupid for Dean t' be sneakin' around when we all knew what was goin' on. Felt like a -- a farce, that didn't need t' happen. Y'know?"

The angel is nodding. Sam wishes his bottle of rum were down here on the floor with them. That might help him make more sense, or at least numb this burning embarrassment.

Any hope that Castiel doesn't see right through him is banished when the angel says, "Dean has no idea that you feel the way you do. Perhaps speaking to him --"

"No! God, no. Nonono," Sam babbles, more panicked than when he thought he'd be losing his drunk, "please _please_ don' mention. This. He's. He's just so sus-- sspizz-- wary of m-motives already. He'd never -- he -- just don't?" There's something stuck in his throat. He blinks, and discovers that at some point he must have lunged up on all fours and crawled over to Castiel, because there's cotton caught between his hands and a pair of warm shoulders, and Castiel's eyes are so close.

Sam licks his lips without even thinking.

Castiel echoes, a flash of pink tongue, and god help Sam, he is so drunk he can't hope to stifle the little noise that punches out of him.

He immediately whirls away on his knees, cradling himself. He stares hard at the dusty molding across the way and wills Castiel to leave. _Please, just go. Don't -- don't try to talk about this, or ask me what I_ \--

"What is it you want, Sam?"

He groans at how softly Castiel asks, at the cruel, cruel irony, and shakes his head, letting the curling length of his hair fall and hide his eyes as they close. "Don' ask me that," he says miserably. "Just go -- go back t' Dean." _I feel like an idiot, man, come on. Leave me to it. Please_.

"This conversation is not over," Castiel says sternly, getting to his feet.

Sam holds his breath, but the next thing he hears is the beat of wings, and knows he's alone again.

He hauls himself up and staggers to the table, lightheaded, to down the rest of his rum in four fluid gulps. He barely makes it to the bed before the room is spinning too badly to navigate.

There's no way in hell he wants to think about what just happened, but when he tries to focus on the swirling popcorn ceiling, all he can see are Castiel's dry lips. That little flash of tongue.

_What is it you want, Sam?_

Hope is a terrible thing, weightless and heavy all at once.

At some point, Sam passes out. He misses Dean sneaking back in the room, alone. He misses Dean regarding him with an expression that's equal parts fond and exasperated. The rumble of Dean's voice invades Sam's dreams as a roll of thunder, far off, and a breeze heavy-laden with the promise of rain.

\- - - - -

The hangover from that night lasts Sam the next two days. The embarrassment from a conversation he barely remembers lingers for awhile after that, but time passes and Castiel makes no mention of what was said. He and Dean kiss each others' foreheads, hold each other after hunts, and Sam resigns himself to looking the other way. He becomes intimately acquainted with the Internet during all the hours he spends training his eyes away from what's happening across the room. When he doesn't have anything to research for a job, there's a site called Tumblr that can occupy him for hours at a time. He soon discovers that one dashboard can't contain all the awesome, and ends up making three separate accounts.

At times, the enjoyment he gets from it feels hollow, but Sam just breathes and keeps on clicking. This is how it is, now. Dean is happy, and Sam can be happy for him. That's all he needs.

Slowly but surely, he starts to believe it.

\- - - - -

It's a Thursday. Castiel's day.

It's pouring outside. No burning down a cursed warehouse tonight. Dean is bored with the selection on TV, Sam is bored with Tumblr and everything else online, and Castiel is looking between them with an increasingly intense expression that Sam doesn't trust one bit.

His suspicions deepen when the angel disappears for a long moment, and returns with the makings for traditional tequila shots.

Dean's eyebrows hit the ceiling. "Going a little stir-crazy there, Cas?"

The angel looks almost smug. "I assumed that you and your brother would find this a suitable diversion."

Sam and Dean exchange a look. Sam is surprised and a little gratified when Dean waits for him to give the okay. Like there's any reason why he wouldn't want to get drunk with his brother, and his brother's -- yeah, okay, fooling no one. He opens his mouth to pass.

Then the TV flickers, the lights echo, and all the electricity dies. With it goes the wifi, little manilla balloon popping up in the corner of his screen asking if he wants to reconnect.

 _Well, shit_ , he thinks grimly, putting the laptop in hibernate. Boring or no, the Internet was still a diversion. Now, he has no excuse.

"Fucking fuck," Dean's swearing. A rustle of cloth, and he's flicking open his Zippo. "God fucking damn it!"

"I'll get the candles from the trunk," Sam sighs, resigning himself to getting wet for the sake of sanity. No way is he getting stuck in a dark room where there will almost surely follow the wet sounds of kissing, the rustle of clothes, a wayward moan... He shakes himself. "You guys better start cutting limes."

It's gonna be a long night.

Sam just really hopes, as he darts out into the downpour, that Dean doesn't decide to teach his angel the finer points of doing body shots.

\- - - - -

Turns out, Castiel has gyroscopic balance. Well, until he starts getting tipsy, but that takes about twenty times the tequila it takes your average Winchester (which he keeps disappearing to get). Meaning by the time the shot glass starts wavering on Castiel's elbow or knee or whatever, Sam is slumped down between the beds, completely unable to focus, and Dean is on his back up on a mattress, looking at Sam upside down and trying unsuccessfully to bat at his brother's hair.

He keeps missing. It's kind of hilarious, and the breeze is nice.

"So _long_ ," Dean grumbles. Sam can barely see him, all fire-toned planes and deep shadows in the flickering candlelight. "You got barber-phobia?"

"Tonsurephobia," Sam corrects absently.

"A'course you know what that is." Dean snorts. "Prob'ly means you _do_."

"When have we ever even been to a barber?" Sam asks mulishly. "You useta cut my hair. Dad did yours wi'the clippers, til you learned'a do it yourself."

"Yeah," Dean says drowsily, letting his hand drop like it was just too heavy. "Did, didn' I?"

"I have discovered something important," Castiel announces, apropos of nothing. Dean cranes his neck to see the angel without sitting up. Sam snorts.

"Wazzat, Cas?" Dean asks.

"You and Sam are alike in _so many ways_ , you could be the same person. So many ways," Castiel says.

Both Sam and Dean scrunch up their faces. "We're not --" they begin in tandem, and immediately dissolve into drunken sniggers.

"You _are_ ," Castiel says archly. "Down to, down to your atoms." He gestures at both of them with fluid grace. "I can see it. You only differ in approximately two hundred and fifty seven ways. Dean, Sam is just like you."

"But I'm better!" Dean crows, rolling up into a sitting position and promptly tackling Castiel across the bed. "Say it! I'm better!"

It looks to Sam like his brother is trying to tickle the angel, which shouldn't be possible -- well, he would've _assumed_ celestial beings wouldn't be undone by something so base as tickling; not that he's really given it any thought -- but Castiel is laughing unabashedly, a deep and throaty guffaw, as he unsuccessfully tries to avoid Dean's questing fingers. The sound makes Sam both want to laugh along, and burst into tears, it's so damn beautiful.

Then Dean tickles Cas right off the bed, rolling him down on top of Sam.

They end up hopelessly tangled. Castiel's drunkenly flailing arms and Dean's head in Sam's lap, Sam sprawling sideways on to an elbow, closer than he's ever been to Castiel's ass. He shoves himself right back up, thighs tense to protect the goods -- but now Dean seems all tickled out, his laughter trailing off as he gazes up at the angel, whose head is about level with Sam's where he's propped up over Dean.

It's no surprise to Sam when Cas leans in, his expression fond, and kisses Dean. Sam has just never been this close to it before. This unable to look away.

He bites his lip. The soft sounds of it are the worst part, because even though he _can_ look away, tilt his head up to face the ceiling, he can still hear the susurrus of wet skin sliding, that unique snick when their lips part and meet again. Quiet sounds of want from one or both of them. Each time one of those little sounds hits Sam, he flinches, can't help it. Just like he can't help his --

Oh, no. No, no, this is worse than that school in Maryland, his Geometry class and his really thin shorts, he just knew everyone could see and this is so much worse.

"Sammy?"

Dean doesn't sound disgusted, just curious. Sam slowly tilts his head back down. He knows he looks distraught when he meets his brother's eyes.

"I'm sorry," he whispers.

In response, Dean rolls his head ever so slightly over Sam's lap. Over the bulge there. Sam hisses, and tries to pull away, but he's stopped by a strong angel's arm. Castiel is peering between them, his expression unreadable.

"You like this, baby brother?" Dean asks hoarsely.

"No," Sam says, and it's not a lie. He's a red-blooded male and the sounds of sex will always turn him on, but he is not enjoying being trapped and ignored. He'd rather be anywhere else.

Dean doesn't get it -- "Uh, somethin' says ya do," he says drily -- but Castiel does.

Castiel is also drunk, which is why to him, it must make perfect sense to tilt his head and kiss Sam.

"Whoa!" Dean exclaims, and scrambles, but there's nowhere he can go; Castiel is holding him down, too. Sam lets out a helpless noise against Castiel's lips and clenches his fingers tighter in the carpet fibers. He can't stop what's happening to his body, can't keep his cock from filling against the back of Dean's neck.

The angel's lips are warm. He tastes tropical, and alien -- Heaven and Jose Cuervo. Sam is instantly addicted.

When Castiel pulls away, he lets Dean up. Sam moves, too, scooting out from between the beds on his butt as his brother lurches up into Castiel's space. "What the hell was _that?_ " Dean demands, hands clutching possessively at the angel's shoulders, but to Sam's amazement he sounds much more intrigued than he does upset.

"Your brother wants," Castiel says simply.

Dean glances over his shoulder at Sam, who tries to make himself smaller. "He does, huh?" Dean says, his voice soft. Calculating. Sam doesn't like the sound of that one bit.

Nor when Dean turns, inches closer, and coaxes, "Sammy?"

Sam refuses to look at him.

"D'you wanna kiss Cas?"

Sam's dick twitches. _I'd rather be struck by lightning_ , he thinks, but even in his own mind he doesn't sound convincing. He chews on his lip. His thought processes are having a hard time slogging through all the liquor in his system, and he can't quite convince himself to protest.

"Sammy," Dean wheedles, and he sounds much closer than he was before. Sam's eyes snap up, alarmed, to meet flame-muddied green mere inches from his own. He gasps, lips parting, but nothing gets said.

"Sam," Dean says, all infinite drunken patience. "Use your words."

"I --" leaves Sam's lips before he gives it permission and he clamps down on the rest. "'m too drunk for this," he forces out instead. "We're all too drunk for this." He stands, wobbling, and after a moment's deliberation Dean and Castiel do, too.

"I don't get you, li'l brother," Dean says.

Sam snorts. "Ch'yeah, what else's new?"

Dean rolls his eyes. "Naw, I mean -- y'get handed this opportunity, you _obvi'sly_ want to take part, an' you're all self-denyin' an' _emo_ about it. Balls to the wall, man. Y'gotta _take_ what you want."

"You're not makin' -- any --" Sam frowns. Movement beside him is distracting him from Dean, and Dean's sudden protest cuts off with a squawk when Castiel places two fingers on each of their foreheads.

"Aw," Dean whines. "All that tequila, just... _poof_." He mimes a cloud of dust. Sam is suddenly, horribly sober, his vision once again clear. Of course, with great sobriety comes great embarrassment. He flushes as he turns away --

\-- but Castiel is stepping forward into his space, shedding his suit jacket, and where is his trench coat? Already a heap on the floor behind him. He's rolling up the sleeves of his white button-down, and Sam has forgotten how to speak. Lean forearms he's never seen before, delicate veins, soft dark hair.

Dean, of course, pours himself a new drink. "Cat got your tongue, Sammy?"

Sam glances at him, uncomprehending. Dean just smirks and takes the shot, throat working, as Castiel steps forward to grasp Sam's hips, thumbs digging possessively into the spurs.

They're overwhelming, those two. Living sensory overload. Sam closes his eyes.

What exactly did Dean mean, "take what you want"?

It couldn't possibly --

He doesn't expect Sam to --

_TILT TILT TILT_

"It's all right," Castiel murmurs right against Sam's skin, lips brushing the bolt of his jaw. Sam jolts, doesn't mean to whimper, but it escapes all the same. He hears Dean chuckle, but instead of it being a grating sound, it just shoots straight down to Sam's dick.

"Go on," Dean says.

Sam opens his eyes. Castiel is so close.

He bites his lip, then licks it. Then he leans in.

Castiel meets him halfway, surging up and claiming him, running a confident tongue across the seam of Sam's lips, and Sam lets him in. How could he not? The angel's tongue is wicked, smooth and slick, tasting the whole of Sam's mouth before Sam can stir himself to respond. When he does, it's with a sharp inhale and his arms encircle Castiel's waist, dragging Castiel in against his chest. The heat of him sears through their two thin layers. A groan rumbles into Sam's mouth, and Castiel is suckling on his tongue, wrenching from him another high-pitched noise of want. Sam hears Dean make a little punched-out sound, hears him pour another shot but Sam is too busy tilting his head to take Castiel more completely, slotting into the angel like he belongs there.

Maybe he does. That's a crazy, wanton thought: Castiel is Dean's, but maybe (even if it's just tonight; _oh, god, let it not just be tonight_ ) just maybe, he can be Sam's, too.

They break the kiss and part mere inches, lips spit-slick and shining. Sam wants to lick over where he's left Castiel wet and panting. He looks deep into those blown blue eyes, dark in the candlelight, and thinks, _I did that. I claimed you_.

He wants to do it again, and again. Castiel is warm against his hips, an answering hardness digging into his thigh. Sam curls into it, just a little, humming when Castiel meets him with equal pressure, grinding.

Sam's fingers itch to cup Castiel's ass, but he's not sure that's allowed.

Then again, he never thought he'd get to kiss the angel, either.

He jerks Castiel roughly to him, fingers deep in his hair, mouths colliding. Sam licks him open, claiming every inch, Castiel shuddering in his grasp and moaning, tongue tangling with his. Teeth catch against lips, biting, suckling and it's _perfect_ , this warm willing body Sam never thought he'd hold so close reduced to a quivering mess in his arms.

A strand of saliva connects them when they break apart this time. Castiel's eyes are practically black, his pale skin glowing with high spots of color on his cheeks. The flickering light of all the little candle flames makes him ethereal.

"Sam," Castiel says, and _fuck_ if he doesn't sound completely wrecked. "What do you want?"

Everything. It's been so long since Sam was able to touch, taste, consume, with anyone. He has been dying to feel this fire, hold it inside his skin and let it burn him so damn good. He wants to fuck and be fucked, taste everything that can be tasted, make Castiel come over and over until he passes out -- Sam wants to find out if it's possible to make an angel pass out.

Sam _wants_.

He hesitates, but in that instant, he knows Castiel can see and feel it all.

The angel mutters something foreign that has the emphasis of a wanton swear, and surges up to kiss him again. Sam will never tire of the taste, even if it's less just Castiel and more like both of them combined with each frenzied swipe of the angel's tongue.

There's a growl from Sam's left. "Get him on the bed, Sammy." It takes awhile for that to register past the rushing in Sam's ears, the bite of Castiel's kiss, but when it does Sam whips his head up and stares at Dean, leaving Castiel to groan and attack his neck.

Hot lips on his skin, hot and wet -- he feels it like they're on his dick instead and his eyelids flutter, just a little.

"What?" he asks hoarsely, no longer sure he heard Dean right.

Dean looks flushed, a drink in one hand, the other -- he's palming his cock, Sam realizes, pressing down hard on a bulge that threatens to escape him. Dean's stupidly hard, Sam realizes. _He thinks this is hot_.

That in itself is hot like _burning_. Sam bites his lip, stifles a cry when Castiel latches on to his earlobe.

"Go on, Sammy," Dean urges. "Lay him down."

Sam's brain blanks. His thoughts hitch with his breath. _Oh, god... o-okay_.

He walks Castiel toward one of the beds in a daze. He feels Dean behind them, dark stare a palpable heat striking his back. Sam dips Castiel toward the mattress and the angel falls back gracefully, gasping Sam's bicep, a fistful of his t-shirt, pulling him down on top.

Sam goes, ranging over Castiel's slighter frame, their bodies aligning in delicious heat. From the table, Dean murmurs, "That's it, Sammy. Cover 'im up. He likes it. Go on, kiss 'im again," he says, in a low rumble that barely registers. Sam does what he's told, gently seizing Castiel's lips. Dean's groan when he does echoes up Sam's spine and forces out an answering sound.

"Oh, god," Sam mumbles against Castiel's mouth.

The angel wraps a leg around Sam's. "My name is Castiel," he says, rutting up as he pulls Sam in. Closer, tighter. Sam moves with him, hands smoothing down Castiel's flanks, up to rake through his hair. Sam's hips work with a mind of their own, seeking friction, pressing Castiel into the mattress and Castiel is bucking up, sweet noises rumbling up from his throat for Sam to drink down.

Dean's breaths come harshly. Sam isn't all that surprised when his brother falls to the mattress beside them and starts working Castiel's shirt off, every button he can reach. "Wait til you see him, Sammy," Dean mutters. "All this skin, always covered up." Castiel whines into Sam's mouth and suddenly the shirt is gone, Castiel sinking back on to the comforter, panting. The sight of him all flushed and exposed just makes Sam want to kiss him harder, lick over every inch.

A few more nips to the angel's lips and Sam is sliding down over Castiel's chest, taking a pert brown nipple into his mouth just to feel him arch, hear him keen.

"That's it," Dean says breathlessly, "pinch the other one, come on," and when Sam does, Castiel practically sobs out a syllable that's both their names combined.

"Yeah, you like that," Dean growls. Sam's jeans get tighter. He's losing it with all this stimulation; Dean sounds like a sex line operator, Castiel is so fucking responsive, and if Sam doesn't get to taste him he will _just die_.

One of his hands works between their bodies to find Castiel's button, zipper, shove the dress pants down and Castiel surges up, eyes wild.

"Please, Sam," he grates, more air than sound.

How could Sam say no to that?

(To any of this? What even _is_ this? No, no questions. Not right now.)

He yanks Castiel's ridiculous white boxer shorts down to his knees. Jimmy is cut, and Castiel's arousal has all of what looks like seven inches of him bobbing toward his navel. Sam edges up on his right elbow so both he and Dean can see.

"Isn't he beautiful?" Dean says.

"Yeah," Sam tries to say, but he chokes on the syllable, his voice trapped and unused. Doesn't matter. It's a fact. He's sliding closer to the angel's cock, salivating, hungry for it. When his breath gusts over the sensitive skin, Castiel whines, and a fat drop of precome oozes from the slit. It catches points of light from around the room and glistens.

 _Wet_ , Sam's brain informs him dumbly. He's already leaning down to taste.

When his tongue licks over the head and around, several things happen at once. Castiel moans, " _Ohhh_ ," and Dean is echoing, right there in Sam's ear. Castiel's hands are clutching at Sam; in his hair, his shirt, raking furrows down his arms. There's another hand, too, that Sam refuses to focus on, that's Dean clasping his jaw and gently guiding him down.

"Suck him, Sammy," Dean whispers, so wrecked. With a broken hum, Sam obeys.

He gets about halfway down before he's choking, but Castiel is already writhing, whining with the effort of not fucking right up into Sam's throat. Sam pulls back up and plunges, a little more confident. Dean is mumbling encouragement, stroking his cheek, pressing in to feel the bulk of Castiel taking up space inside. It's surreal. Sam drags up, lips wet and pursed, swirls his tongue on the way back down, and is amazed when he takes a breath and he can smell lime and Dean's skin, and his lips suddenly meet Dean's hand, now jacking the rest of the length.

Sam sucks what he can take, trying not to notice how the angel's unique flavor and the scent of his brother ( _home_ ) mingle so very well. He pulls up, drives back down, tongue working against the vein on the underside. Castiel is a panting mess, abandoning his flighty grips to clench his fists in the bedclothes, hips working in little circles. Sam feels empowered as he moves, that he can reduce such a powerful being to little mewls and blurts of precome across his tongue. He hums, low, just to make Castiel cry out. Just so he can taste it again, bitter salt, so very sweet.

His own dick is rock hard in his jeans, he and Dean are still fully dressed, but Sam is content to just draw the angel closer and closer to completion. His blood is singing through his body, heat pooling in his gut, disbelief and waves of lust riding him in turn. He's so turned on by this whole situation that he might even come in his briefs like a kid. Dean would never let him hear the end of it.

But who could blame him, really? Castiel is just so damn responsive. Every flick of Sam's tongue up his shaft earns a moan, his dark head tossing back and forth, mouth gasping for breath like a fish out of water. His cock throbs even harder and Sam can tell he's close, wants to bring him there, send him careening over the edge --

"Pull off, Sammy, ease up," Dean says. Sam snarls around his mouthful, suckling harder on the head, earning himself a keen. He wants to taste Castiel, make him lose his mind.

"S-Sam," Castiel breathes, "Sam, _Sam, oh_ \--"

"Come on, Sammy," and Dean hauls his brother up, bodily off the angel's cock. "Wanna show you somethin', eager beaver."

Sam can only pant, and watch, as his brother leans in to kiss Castiel, hand still working lazily. "Caaas," Dean murmurs, sing-song, against the angel's lips.

Castiel catches Dean's plump bottom lip between his teeth, pulls back and lets it sting. "Do not tease me," he growls. Dean grins.

The moment feels too private to witness. Sam glances away.

"Sammy, stay with me, here," Dean chides. "You gotta watch. _Closely_." The words slur a little.

Sam wonders just how many shots his brother took, when his back was turned. Now that he's not so lost in Castiel, Sam sees that Dean is pretty thoroughly trashed, his face ruddy in the candlelight, pupils blown with more than lust. It makes Sam wonder, with a little thrill of dread, whether Dean will regret this whole encounter in the morning.

That feeling settles in the pit of his stomach, chases away some of his abandon, but there's no way he's leaving this little scene to down some more tequila. Not when --

 _"Dean_ ," Castiel breathes, his body arching into Sam, legs straining open wider. Sam glances down the length of him and nearly swallows his own tongue.

Dean has one hand between the angel's legs, tucked up in the dark little space behind his balls, working in, and out. Slowly. Patiently. Castiel whines, thrusting into the intrusion just as slowly, hips swirling a graceful, hungry figure eight down on to Dean's hand.

There's no air for Sam to breathe, not in a space shared with something like _that_. His jeans are far too tight, now, a wet spot growing in his briefs against his tender slit. He bites his lip, can't help the way his hips curl in sympathy with Castiel's, rutting slowly and shamelessly against the angel's bare thigh.

"Y'see, Sammy," Dean says conversationally, "what Cas really likes is something up inside him. And he's awfully keen on my fingers. Ain'cha, Cas?"

"Yes, yes," Castiel mutters, "especially when you give me more of them, Dean--! _Unh_ ," he groans, "don't be a tease."

"Aw, but you're so pretty all laid out for me. Isn't he, Sammy?"

His mouth completely dry, all Sam can do is nod. He suddenly really wants to lick around Dean's fingers, get Castiel sopping wet down there, so one or both of them can push in and --

His dick jumps. " _Fuck_ ," Sam mouths, pressing in against Castiel's leg and just grinding. He's gonna have to get a hand on himself soon. One of then needs to come, like, yesterday. He wants to see, to feel, something. Anything.

Castiel tosses his head, moaning, and Sam decides that tonight of all nights is a perfect time to give in to hedonism.

There's a startled cry from the angel when Sam slides down to his knees on the floor, wrenching Castiel's legs wide open and ducking his head to meet Dean's hand. He grabs Castiel's dick in the process, jacking it hard up and out of the way. He seriously doubts that Cas minds, by the sounds that escape him. The angel is hard as nails, taut flesh twitching like mad in Sam's grip.

"Such a kinky bitch, Sammy," Dean says, and it sounds like he approves, but Sam is too busy licking around Castiel's stretched little hole with a happy moan to care or respond.

There's barely any musk. _Angel_ , Sam reminds himself, and flicks his tongue between Dean's fingers, tasting, earning noise from the other two. Dean scissors his fingers open further and Sam fucks his tongue in between them, getting Castiel good and sloppy wet. Castiel's groans of encouragement resonate through his skin and up Sam's tongue. Dean's fingers twist, bend, and the angel shrieks, " _Yes!_ Dean, oh, right there... _Sam_ ," he bawls, when Sam licks in as far as he can reach, tongue flashing back out around the rim, and his brother's hand.

"You gonna get him ready, Sammy?" Dean asks, and oh shit, the words are the burn of tequila right up against Sam's ear. "You wanna be the one to fuck him?"

Sam moans, can't help it. _Fuck, yes._ Dean goes on. "He's so tight, Sam. So hot. I fucked him earlier today and he's like a virgin right now. He'd make you come in half a minute."

"Gonna come anyway," Sam mutters into the heated space. "Fuck, Dean --" _Fucking bastard_ \--

"Yeah," Dean replies, and he _nips at Sam's ear_. "I wanna see you fuck him."

Sam doesn't remember rearing up to unbutton his jeans, undoing the zipper, or shoving them down. Dean helping him wriggle them off is vague. The slap of something cool and slick to his cock, though, _that_ Sam will remember. Because it's his brother's hand, coated in lube, _his brother's hand_ jacking his cock -- "Little Sammy's packing heat," Dean says, an appreciative growl. "Guess you're a Winchester after all" -- slick tight slide again and again until Sam groans and bats the hand away, his balls already drawing up, tightening for release.

He doesn't want to come until he's buried in Castiel's heat.

"Condom?" he barely manages to ask.

"Can't catch anything," Castiel gasps, clutching at Dean's shoulder, Sam's chest. Dean's lube-slick fingers are teasing around his entrance, slipping in and out, plunging in suddenly with what's probably three to the hilt -- just, Sam suspects, so Dean can see the angel's eyes roll back in his head, hear him groan out Dean's name. Dean looks so satisfied when he does. Sam knows he'd never tire of hearing his own in that voice, already fucked out and so far to go.

Sam wonders, heat and impatience and want, what Castiel will sound like when he comes.

_Not yours._

_Shut up, brain. He's mine tonight. Ours,_ and that doesn't even feel wrong to Sam. He's willing to share if Dean is, willing to make this thing work if they can.

He and Dean fold the angel up together, Castiel's legs on Sam's shoulders, Sam with his knees tucked into Castiel's thighs. The angel bends so easily, eyes never leaving Sam's face, not even when Dean strokes his jawline silently with one sticky finger.

And then Sam is holding himself to Castiel's entrance. It flutters at the touch, seems so small. Like there's no way peg A will fit in slot B, not with all the lube in creation.

"I can't believe I'm doing this," Sam says. His hands are shaking. He's got a death grip on his cock, on Castiel's leg.

"You got this, Sammy," Dean says hoarsely, more rasp than tone.

Sam stares into Castiel's blue eyes, questioning.

"Please, Sam," Castiel says, his voice strained. "Please."

He's sliding in before he registers having moved his hips. The head pops inside the ring of muscle, and everybody groans. Castiel is so goddamn tight, a vise around Sam's cock, the best damn thing he thinks he's ever felt. Sam pushes forward, has to be sheathed in that heat _now_.

Before he can bury himself to the hilt, though, he freezes at the ticklish, oddly warm sensation of fingers pressing, feeling along the seam where he and Castiel are joined. Castiel whimpers. Dean's lip is bleeding, a dark dribble down his chin from where he's biting it so hard, knuckles grazing Sam's balls. " _Jesus fuck,_ " he mouths, mutters, "Jesus _fuck_."

"Dean," Castiel says, in a higher pitch than usual, "let your brother fuck me."

Dean snatches his hand away as though he's been burned. His lip is already healed. The look on his face is devastating. Inflammatory.

"Move, Sam," one or both of them whispers, but Sam has already closed his eyes to it all and begun to thrust, short sharp jerks of his hips, muffled slap of skin. Castiel moans, low, to the harmony of bed springs steadily creaking. Sam gasps his breaths. He's doing it, he's really, he's fucking an _ohhh god_ , he's fucking Castiel, whose body accepts and squeezes him tight like they were both made for this.

 _No wonder Dean fucks him all the time_ , Sam's stupid brain just has to whisper. Pain makes him duck his head, press his lips to the angel's chest, and fuck him harder. Slam in, pull back, find a rhythm and jackhammer the headboard into the wall, Sam is losing himself in the way it feels to be sheathed in Castiel. The angel is searing inside, ripple clench of his muscles against the intrusion, his heels diving hard into Sam's back, urging him even deeper.

Sam jostles Castiel into a slightly different position and leans in, snaps his hips, and lets out a grunt of triumph when Castiel cries out, arching into him. " _Sam_ ," the angel shrieks, bucking, fucking himself down harder. Sam's not letting up on his prostate now that he's found it, every thrust a home run. "Yes, _yes_ ," Castiel sobs. Sam fucks him with singular intent, hips slamming into him, burrowing deep. There's a bright point of pure molten heat building upon itself at the base of his spine, and he's chasing it with every thrust.

Castiel's cries, his movements are becoming more erratic. It's almost no question whether or not he's getting close.

"You gonna come on my cock, Cas?" Sam growls, his mouth on auto pilot. "Don't even need to touch you, do I? Bet you love it so much, you'll come just like this. Impaled. Fucking _skewered_." He's thrusting in time with his words. "Cas, I bet you can _taste_ my cock, I'm fucking you so deep." Castiel is nearly insensate, the only words he can form being swears and Sam's name.

"Ah, _fuck_ ," comes softly from beside them, and Sam glances over, eyes wide on the sight of Dean coming, hard, all over his own fist. His face is slack, pleasure seizing through his body, lips parted and trembling. He's -- he's absolutely gorgeous. Sam can't look, but he can't look away.

Then Castiel tugs on his hair, yanks him back to meet a starving kiss, more teeth and tongue than anything. "Sam, Sam, Sam," the angel mutters, his whole body twitching, closing in on Sam's cock like a collapsing tunnel, "Sam, _Sam, unh_ \--!"

God, he's coming untouched, spraying across his own stomach and the shirt Sam's still got on, jerking beneath him like a wild thing with pulse after pulse of heat and when his body clamps down on Sam, that's it, Sam's done, shaking out his own orgasm in a wash of heat and pleasure so intense he's keening, jolting, thrusting through it until he's overwhelmed. Castiel keeps clenching with aftershocks, forcing little noises from them both until Sam can't take it, he has to pull out.

He collapses over Castiel with a deep-seated sigh.

For a long time, nobody moves.

Then Sam shucks off his come-splattered shirt, rolls with a groan to the side, and reaches out for Dean. Castiel's doing the same, an unspoken agreement that Dean should stretch out along the angel's other side.

He's resisting, though. Sam cracks open an eye, finds his brother by the flickering orange glow. Dean's face is shadowed, unreadable.

"Dean," Castiel says softly. "It's all right."

Sam sees his brother's shoulders stiffen. With a rush, all that's been wrong with this entire situation hits him square in the chest. He sits up, trying not to fall off the edge of the bed.

"Sam," Castiel says, uncomprehending, "what -- where are you -- Sam," he stammers, because Sam is doing up his jeans, moving away. Sam has never heard the angel sound so confused.

He should say something before he leaves, but he has no idea what it should be. He slips on his shoes, grabs his wallet and a jacket from the table. It might be his, it might be Dean's. He puts it on, and the overwhelming scent of his brother almost makes him tear it right back off.

Because he's apparently a masochist, Sam inhales deeply and tugs it around himself tighter.

"Sam, you don't --" Castiel begins, but he's cut off in such a way that can only mean he's being kissed. Dean is shutting him up. Sam hears the mattress springs creak, and knows it's not either of them coming to stop him. It's probably Dean moving in to his angel's arms, now that the interloper is gone.

There's a lump in Sam's throat he can't swallow. He wishes, he wants. God, he wants.

 _You knew this was never yours_ , his brain reminds him. _Idiot_.

He opens the door to the rain, and leaves.

\- - - - -

He didn't grab the keys, so he can't just hole up in the car. About a half hour into staring across the parking lot, street lights cutting the rain into rich neon colors, no one has come after him. Sam swallows and starts toward the motel office.

The owner seems less than surprised to see him, until he requests a new room. "You know the power's out in all of them," she says, like people have been asking. Sam nods, numb, and hands over cash. She shrugs, and hands him a key.

He gets a single king. It's much too big, feels like he's being consumed when he splays in the middle. One side or the other is no good, either, the cold gulf at his back a terrible emptiness. Eventually, he curls up on the floor in the space between the bed and the wall, body and soul aching.

At some point, the power comes back on. Sam hasn't fallen asleep. The wall looks no different to unseeing eyes in the light than it did in darkness.

\- - - - -

It's not Castiel who comes for him, like he would have expected, but Dean.

The knock is one of their codes, so Sam leaps up to answer like he wouldn't for anyone else. Dean doesn't look like he's slept either, framed in the doorway in a faded Aerosmith t-shirt with bed hair and dark circles under his eyes.

"That's my jacket," he says.

Sam tugs at the hem. "It was dark."

They stare at one another for a long, long moment, until Sam draws breath to ask if they're going for breakfast.

Dean flinches.

Sam shuts his mouth with a snap. Okay, then. It's clear as the day spilling into this dank little room that last night is just another one of those things that Dean never wants to mention, or think about, ever again. Sam should be used to this by now. He pretty much expected it.

That doesn't mean it doesn't hurt like hell.

"We going for breakfast?" he asks, and he's proud of himself when his voice doesn't waver or break.

Dean, damn him, looks relieved. "Yeah," he says, visibly relaxing. "Want me some bacon."

He turns, and Sam follows. He always will.

\- - - - -

Sam doesn't see Castiel again until the next job, a series of suspicious drownings in Salt Lake City. The angel looks at him like he wants to apologize, but of course he can't bring it up with Dean there. Sam shouldn't resent the angel for that, but simmers with it, regardless.

Castiel and Dean go off somewhere together, and Sam just doesn't think about it -- there's a new trend on Tumblr -- but when Dean comes back, he's alone, and looks upset.

Out of both common courtesy and a desire to stay alive, Sam doesn't say anything.

Later that evening, Dean goes out to pick up beer and Chinese, muttering something about a horror movie marathon and 'tradition'. Sam uses the restroom, and when he comes out, Castiel is perched on Dean's bed, toying with a yellow rubber duck. He looks lost, forlorn like Sam has never seen him.

The look in his eyes when he meets Sam's, though, is fond.

"I am assuming Dean has never told you how he and I became involved," the angel says, when Sam sits back down in his chair. Sam blinks at him. Why on earth would Dean have told him that? Especially since Dean never wanted Sam to know about them at all?

A small quirk at the corner of Castiel's mouth; a full-on smirk, for him.

"It was because of this," he says, holding up the duck with a twist of his wrist before dropping his hands to his lap. "I didn't know what it was. He explained it to me, and in the process, we -- fell in together, as I've heard it said. It hasn't been that long since, but I know so much more now. So much. And yet..." He trails off, studying the duck thoughtfully.

Sam feels the little furrow forming in the middle of his forehead, the one Dean pokes sometimes, tells him he's thinking too hard. He doesn't understand where Castiel is going with this. He doesn't want to rush him, though, by asking.

Then the angel looks up at him, and there's a depth to Castiel's eyes that never fails to awe. It's very clear, in those moments, that Castiel is utterly ineffable, a being of age and power that a puny, damaged human like Sam couldn't possibly understand. The fact that he's now fucked Castiel makes him feel even smaller still.

"Sam," the angel says, stern, "stop that. It was very enjoyable, if you weren't able to derive that conclusion from the noises I was making."

Sam gapes at him, but Castiel's face is -- he's _teasing_. Sam drags a hand over his face and offers a chagrined, accepting smile in return.

Castiel raises the rubber duck, and squeaks it at him.

A laugh startles out of Sam.

Castiel studies the duck, humor slowly fading from his face. "There is... still so much I fail to understand about human emotions," he says, "and human values. Apparently, love is a many-faceted process, rather than something nebulous and plainly wonderful. Though I have observed many forms of human love, it was not until attempting this relationship with Dean that I became fully aware of just how complicated humans make the concept out to be." He sighs. "Dean is fearful. Tentative. He does not understand how love can be uncomplicated, and open. He barely accepts that he and I can be together; let alone that yes, he and I and you can also be. That he can love you in a way that human society says is wrong."

"Wait," Sam blurts, his brain struggling to catch up. Castiel has just poleaxed him with several important things that Sam had either entirely failed to connect on his own or had never even contemplated. "Dean -- he --"

"He loves you, Sam," Castiel says patiently. "As he loves me. And you love him, in a way you are beginning to feel for me. I am fully capable of carrying love for you both, equally, but neither of you seem to understand that possibility."

"But we're brothers!" Sam protests, not even touching that last part. Not yet. "Dean and I -- we can't -- I mean yeah, I love him, but not like _that_ \--"

In a moment of existential clarity, Sam sees that statement for the lie that it is, and shuts the fuck up.

_Oh, my god._

"Now you see," Castiel says. "And we are one step closer."

Sam blinks at him. He has no idea what to say. This has been a hell of a however many days it's been since he just wanted a fucking Mountain Dew.

The angel stands abruptly. "I must go," he says. "Dean is returning soon. I trust you will do the right thing."

That makes even less sense than the rest of this situation. "What does that --" Sam begins, but Castiel is gone. The little rubber duck has fallen to its side on the comforter, and Sam stares at it.

One little black painted eye stares back, almost cheerfully winking.

"I don't suppose you know what to do about all this?" he asks in a gust of breath, tilting back to regard the ceiling. He doesn't know if he's asking the rubber duck, or God.

Neither is likely to answer.

 

**Author's Note:**

> _After thinking of the title,[this song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JErVP6xLZwg) was in my head nearly the entire time I was writing. You're welcome._
> 
> Thanks for reading! 
> 
> If you liked this fic, please consider leaving kudos/a comment. I really appreciate feedback. ♥
> 
> I swear I'm working on the next one. It's giving me more grief than I'd expected. That plus life getting in the way, as life is wont to do, means I've got nothing to give you but the promise that I intend to finish this series. Don't know when, or how, but I've got nine varying drafts that say I haven't given up yet.


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